


gravitational pull

by beccasaur



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccasaur/pseuds/beccasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he's tired. So very tired of fighting. Fighting his superiors, what he wants to do to protect his men. Fighting himself, when he finds himself being too curt, too much like the commanders he hates. </p>
<p>Fighting what he feels for Brad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gravitational pull

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is based on the fictitious portrayals as shown in the TV show Generation Kill and bears no resemblance to the real people with the same names. 
> 
> This is really intimidating because all the writers in this fandom are so good, but here goes!

_**grav·i·ta·tion·al pull:** The attraction that one object has for another object due to the invisible force of gravity. The gravitational pull of the Sun keeps the planets in orbit around it._

* * *

There's a shooting star in the sky.  
  
Make a wish, Nate.  
  
What would he wish for? His hope back, a mission that doesn't feel like a waste of time, a clear SOP. Officers that are vaguely competent, a gunnery sergeant that isn't out to get him. The ability to be proud of what he's done here, to feel like he's done more than fuck up an already fucked up country.  
  
Brad.  
  
But shooting stars are just rock burning up and falling apart, like his wishes, like his dreams.  
  
Like that stupid idealism he once had.  
  
He's got nothing left.  
  
He doesn't believe anymore. Too much has gone wrong for that; too many dead civilians and unclear missions and inconsistent orders. Too much conflict between doing what he wants to do for his men, what needs to be done, and following orders.  
  
Maybe he shouldn't have cared for them. He wasn't supposed to; not this much, at least. But he did. He does.  
  
He'll take all the shit Griego can bring raining down on him, as long as it avoids them.  
  
He just wants something good. He wants to believe again. He doesn't believe in the chain of command, he doesn't believe in the SOP. Honestly, he's not even sure that he believes in himself; he'll do everything he can to bring his men home again, because they're not quite home and dry just yet, but even so, Nate's not sure how much longer he can keep doing this.  
  
He believes in them, though, in his men. They're the best platoon there is. They're good people. Not his friends, they'll never be his friends, but he cares about them, regardless.  
  
No-one need ever know what he's thinking, because he can't share with them. Not even with Gunny Wynn, though undoubtedly he shares more with Mike than he probably should; he'll keep it to himself, he'll do the best that he can do in the circumstances, and he'll feel only what he can deal with now.  
  
Everything else will wait. Everyone knows returning stateside will be just as big a clusterfuck as this, in an entirely different way. Adapting back is hard; every noise is mortar fire, all the people outside insurgents. When he returned from Afghanistan, he spent the first week sleeping on the floor, craving a ranger grave he'd only ever managed to get a couple of hours a night in. He woke reaching for a gun or ka-bar that wasn't there.  
  
“You think too much.”  
  
He's not surprised to find Brad at his side, because he fits there. Maybe it's the only thing that fits in this whole damn mess.  
  
Just as the planets orbit the sun, Bravo 2 seems to revolve around Brad; he's the voice of reason, the one that every single man looks up to, and Nate's sure that the platoon would fall apart without him, far more so than it would if he wasn't there. He should be bothered by that; he's not.  
  
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. He and Brad can say as much in a single look as Person can when he's running his mouth, and so much more besides.  
  
Nate doesn't know how they developed this language. It's like it's always been there. Saying the unsaid.  
  
And he's tired. So very tired of fighting. Fighting his superiors, what he wants to do to protect his men. Fighting himself, when he finds himself being too curt, too much like the commanders he hates.  
  
Fighting what he feels for Brad.  
  
So he says nothing, just inclines his head a little and goes back to watching the sky.  
  
The shooting star is gone.  
  
“You need to stop for a while, sir,” Brad continues, but it's not him continuing to talk instead of remaining in companionable silence that's surprising. They've talked before. It's the hand on his shoulder, heavy and reassuring, and it's probably his imagination that leads him to believe he can feel its warmth through the layers of his uniform, but it feels good, nonetheless.  
  
It also feels wrong. This is crossing all kinds of lines.  
  
“Brad—”  
  
He turns his head to look at him, now, to tell him _no_ and _we can't_ and _I'm your platoon commander_ , but Brad's lips on his swallow his protests.  
  
He brings his hands up to Brad's chest to push him away, but finds them gripping onto his flak jacket instead, tugging him closer.  
  
It's not, after all, that he doesn't want this; it's that he _can't_ want this.  
  
But for a moment—for a moment he gives in, he kisses back, he doesn't shy away from Brad's tongue running over his lips.  
  
He's so tired of fighting.  
  
When they part, Brad's hand is curled around his neck. “Sir,” he says. “Nate.” It's an acknowledgement of everything Nate didn't say before. He knows this is wrong, too. But he wants it.  
  
He pulls Nate closer, and he can _feel_ that he wants it, just as the sound of his name on Brad's lips made heat pool deep in his belly. He can't be 'sir', here. He can't be the LT. He's got to just be Nate.  
  
Who is Nate? He's been the LT for so long, he's never let anyone see how he really feels, not even Brad, that he's not even sure. Nate doesn't belong here, much as this doesn't.  
  
He regards Brad, for a moment; they never need to say much, after all, can have a conversation with a single expression, and whatever he sees must be satisfactory, because then he's pressing their lips together once more, opening his mouth and feeling Brad's tongue press its way inside.  
  
It's insistent. Like the man himself is, really.  
  
Brad pushes him backwards until he hits a wall, and Nate's surprised to realise that the moan, too loud, too close to the other Marines to be able to make that kind of noise, is his own. Brad's thigh shoves its way between his own, and then he's rutting against it.  
  
His combat jacks have been few and far between. Too tired, not enough time, not willing enough to picture his TL's hand around his cock instead of his own; a series of reasons and excuses that he doesn't much care to think about. Now, it seems Brad was right, and he needed to get out of his head for a while, because he's hard and desperate.  
  
They've got to be quick. Maybe that's what gives it the desperate edge.  
  
Perhaps it's just because Nate is drowning, and Brad is the last solid thing he has to cling onto.  
  
If they're not careful, he's going to come in his pants like a teenager, and suddenly, he needs to touch skin. He needs to feel the warmth that seems to radiate off Brad – Iceman has always been a misnomer, he's thought. Brad's calm, he's certainly laconic, but he's not unfeeling.  
  
The image of him falling apart on the airfield after they try to save the boy is seared into Nate's brain, after all.  
  
There are too many layers to navigate, but finally—finally he finds his way into Brad's pants, wrapping his hand around his cock as Brad splays his hand on Nate's stomach, warm and large and grounding.  
  
He pauses for a moment, needing to watch his cock disappear into Brad's hand, wanting that image seared into his memory along with all the bad, but then Brad huffs against his ear and thrusts his hips, and it's easy to forget everything except this.  
  
He didn't even let himself dream about this. Dreams fall apart and die.  
  
But here they are, jerking each other off, and he presses his mouth to Brad's neck to muffle the sound he makes when he comes, a swipe of the thumb over the head enough to push him over the edge. He doesn't even care that it's over embarrassingly fast.  
  
The stars behind his eyelids are better than a whole goddamn meteor shower.  
  
He watches Brad's face as he comes, and that, too, is something that he wants to store away. He wants to see it again, when they can take their time, when he can properly dig beneath the layers to the man underneath. He's seen Brad without his shirt on, running through a field with his arms outstretched, momentarily carefree in a way that Nate was almost jealous of, but he wants to see him naked.  
  
Not now, though. Now they clean up as best they can, rearrange their clothes, try and look like they haven't been doing exactly what they've been doing. It's not perfect, but marines make do.  
  
Nate looks at Brad, and the tilt of his head asks, _are we okay?_  
  
Why wouldn't they be? Brad seemingly thinks the same thing, because the corners of his mouth twist upwards, and that's all the answer Nate needs, for now.  
  
They'll talk about this properly another time. When they're home.  
  
They stand side by side, shoulders touching, in silence for far longer than it takes to catch their breath, and then Brad's moving away again. “Get some rest, sir,” he says, and then he's gone. They never say goodbye.  
  
Nate leans his head back against the wall and casts his eyes to the sky once again.  
  
At home, people look up and see the same stars. American or Iraqi, the universe doesn't care.  
  
By the time the light from those stars reaches Earth, they're already dead. Collapsed into white dwarves and then into nothing at all. If something that powerful, that huge, can burn out, then he stands little chance of fighting it.  
  
He's not sure that he wants to, anyway.


End file.
